Shrinking Violet (3 page)

A sliver of sunlight shines through the French doors and makes the diamond stud in Rob's left ear sparkle.

"On the way to school. But mostly at night." The morning drive may be the most popular time slot, but most high schoolers are doing homework when they listen to the radio or just cruising around.

"So we need someone young and fresh." Rob shoves a mound of mashed potatoes into his mouth. I nod my head. He's totally right.

The phone rings. No one moves, so I shuffle over to the counter. I check the caller ID.

"It's for me."

"Go ahead." Mom waves me away.

I answer it and head to my room. "Hi, Audrey. Thank God it's you."

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Audrey is the only person I can confide in. Like me, she's a not-popular, which is a step away from the dorks. I didn't meet Audrey until sixth grade. We were in PE together, both enduring the torture of Kevin Parker. He called her Beak (on account of her larger than normal nose) and of course, me Snowball. We were both ecstatic when he got suspended for ten days freshman year for fighting and was sent to an alternative school.

"Why, what's wrong?"

"I got attacked by the Mary Kay lady this afternoon." I plop down on my bed and kick off my Skechers. "Ohmigod. Did you call the police?"

"I should've." I laugh. I think of myself all made up and then Mom's face when she caught me washing it all off. I can't stop laughing. I fall to the floor and laugh some more. It feels good.

"Tere, what is it?" Audrey gasps.

I think I'm scaring her, so I stop. My stomach muscles are killing me. "No, my mom just had her do a makeover on me. It was okay, but of course not good enough for the Princess."

We call my mom Princess behind her back because she always coaxes men into doing whatever she wants. She's an ex-Realtor, sold Rob the biggest house in the neighborhood, then two months later, when it came time for him to move in, we moved in, too. She hasn't worked a day since. Now, I'm not complaining, because this McMansion makes our town house look like a dollhouse. Rob is definitely her best score yet.

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"I'm sorry. That sucks."

"Nah, it's okay. I went to the station with my mom after school yesterday, and DJ

Wipeout quit while I was there."

"In front of you?"

"Yeah, pretty much. Now Rob's all worried he won't find someone decent to replace him." I look up at the collage of musicians that I made on my bedroom wall. I need a photo of PJ Squid up there. It'd be nice to have some new hottie to say good night to before I go to sleep. And let's face it, PJ Squid is flawless, with his dark brown curly hair, green eyes, and the build of a Greek god. He designed his own workout studio in his house and the investment was totally worth it.

"You're good, Tere."

"Me?"

"Yeah, you'd be a great DJ. You know the music better than most people, and you've got a deep, sexy voice. I'm sure you'd sound awesome on the radio."

I never thought of my voice as sexy. Deep, yeah, but not something guys would swoon over. I was an alto in mandatory eight grade chorus and I don't think Mr. Baxter stuck me with mostly boys because I sounded sexy.

"No way. I'd freeze up."

"You'd be all alone in the studio. Not much different from you hanging around in your room doing those fake countdowns all the time."

"I'll stick to broadcasting from 11441 Blanche Drive, thanks."

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When we hang up, I crank the volume on my stereo and wait for the Saturday night countdown to begin.

Even if I was remotely interested in filling in for DJ Wipeout, there's no way Rob would go for it. Audrey's crazy.

***

33

I'm glad this is my last year of high school. If I can help it, I won't sign up for any college classes that start before noon. Luckily, I got in early decision at the University of Miami and avoided the whole college search hassle. So many people at school have been freaking out for months about whether they'll get into any of their top choices. My top choice was to get out of the house. Come August I'll no longer have Mom breathing down my neck all the time.

Mom makes me walk to school even though I have my license because she says it's good exercise. It's not the twenty-minute hike that bothers me, it's the fact that everyone passes me in their cars and just looks the other way.

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The weather report said it was going to be a breezy morning, so I throw on a hoodie and hook myself up to my iPod. Music is definitely my wake-up call. I grab a raisin bagel and a bottled water and wave good-bye to Mom.

"I won't be home until after eight tonight." Mom cinches the belt on her pink bathrobe.

"Eat without us. There are Lean Cuisines in the freezer."

I nod, clasping the bagel in my mouth.

"If you have to start your day with carbs, you should only eat half." Mom holds out her hand to collect the
bad
half.

Instead, I rip off a piece of bagel with my teeth and chew. Then I'm out the door. Can't she just lay off the whole carbs thing? I don't think anyone has died from eating a raisin bagel for breakfast.

Today won't be so bad because I don't have a class last period, meaning I can walk home before most people get out of school. I was psyched when I ended up with a bunch of seventh-period study halls. Somebody out there must like me, or not like me, depending oh how you see it.
Thank you, Schedule God!
All I had to do was cough up a note from my mom saying that I could "study" at home.

I try and match my steps to the beat of the music, but midsong PJ Squid is rapping like crazy, and there's no way I'm breaking into a jog. Tracy Kramer whizzes past me in her red Jeep on Oak Bluff Drive and has to brake quickly for the light. When I reach the intersection, she's still waiting to turn. I can tell she's listening 35

to SUN 101.2, because they're playing crap music again. I think the owner of the station must be sleeping with Holly Lemon because her one hit single, "Lemon Drop," is polluting the street. Why anyone would want to listen to her high-pitched, nasally voice sing about her spiritual awakening after seven months of rehab is beyond me. I guess it doesn't hurt that her hair is as yellow as the sun and her boobs are so perky that they can carry on a conversation without her.

I cross the street and enter Ridgeland through the back by the teacher's parking lot.

When they .first repainted the building my freshman year, it looked like a nice ripe peach. Now, four years later, the peach has lost its color and is starting to mold around the edges.

As soon as I spot the security guard, I sling my school ID around my neck. When they took the pictures at the beginning of the year, the new guy in the front office didn't know how to use the camera properly, so everyone whose last name started with A-C

got stuck with a stretched out photo that easily adds twenty pounds to your face. Now I'm reminded every day how I'll look if I gain all the weight back, and I guess so is everyone else.

I swing by the science wing and pick up my literature book from my locker. A mob of girls are crowded around some volleyball player, and are admiring her belly-button ring.

"Hey, you're in Ms. Peters' class, right?" Stacy Barnes shouts in my direction.

We've only been in the same class for over six months.

Stacy sits in the second row next to the window. Frank Williams, 36

the guy behind her, likes to play with her long golden-brown hair and watch her shake her ass every time she gets up to sharpen her pencil. She's all cheer and no depth.

I turn around to make sure there's no one behind me. Nope. And when I turn back, Stacy's still staring at me. "Can you tell her I'll be a few minutes late because I'm in a volleyball meeting?" Stacy relubricates her lips with shimmer gloss.

By now the whole group has turned their attention from the belly-button piercing to me. My face goes red. All she wants is for me to say yes. So I nod, hoping that's good enough.

"Thanks." She flashes me a quick smile.

I try to smile back, but by the time I do, Stacy's already fussing over the new navel ring.

"Does that girl speak?" I hear one of the others ask, but no one has time to answer because the warning bell rings.

Ms. Peters is writing on the wipe board when I walk into Room 121 and everyone else is shuffling to their seats. I stop next to her and clear my throat, hoping she'll turn around, but she doesn't. She's too busy writing out a quote, which I'm sure will lead today's discussion.

I clear my throat again, but then Tim Connors cuts in front of me. "Hey, Ms. Peters. I'm back."

She turns around. "Feeling better?"

"Yeah. Wanna see the damage from my motorcycle rollover?" He lifts up his shirt before she can answer. I look away but still catch a glimpse of the nasty red scar. Nice abs, though.

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The last bell rings and Tim rashes to his seat. I, however, haven't moved.

Finally Ms. Peters notices me standing in front of the board. "Hello, Tere."

"Hi," I say softly.

"What can I do for you?" She recaps her marker. "Stacy's late."

She leans in closer. "Speak up." I don't, but still repeat myself. "Stacy's late."

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" Ms. Peters grabs her attendance book off her desk.

"No, it's, just that--"

"Don't worry, I know, one more late and she has in-house suspension."

Oh, God. That's not what I meant. I don't need to make an enemy because once you screw with a member of the volleyball team, you're, well, screwed!

I take a deep breath. "Sh-sheee---"

Ms. Peters cuts me off, "Thanks, Tere--now take your seat."

I don't move. I'm frozen like a snowman. What can I do? I'd have to yell at the top of my lungs to get her attention now, hut my mouth is as dry as the before-person's hair in a dandruff shampoo commercial.

"Good morning!" Ms. Peters bellows over the classroom chatter. Immediately the place falls quiet. Now, that is a good radio voice. Except I don't see Ms. Peters playing hip-hop and top forty.

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No, she's all about string music. Apparently, teaching English was her second choice.

Playing the violin in the symphony was her first. Poor Ms. Peters got stuck with us.

Defeated, I take my seat in the third row and eye the door. If Stacy comes in now, maybe Ms. Peters will give her a break.

Ms. Peters reads the quote on the wipe board.
"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for
the pangs of disappointed love."

"That's deep, Ms. P," Frank yells from the back. "You're a real poet."

"And she don't know it!" Tim reaches across two desks and gives Frank a high-five.

Ms. Peters ignores them. "This quote is written by Jane Austen from her book,
Northanger Abbey.
I want everyone to take five minutes and free-write in their notebooks about what they think it means."

"Love sucks," Amy, the girl sitting next to me, mutters.

I wouldn't know. I've never loved anybody. Yeah, I've had plenty of crushes, but they haven't gone any further than that. Unless you count the time in ninth grade when this girl, Sophia, overheard Audrey saying that I thought Johnny Dawson was cute and she decided to tell her friend Ruth, who told anyone that walked by her that day. And by the end of school, half the freshman class thought I liked a guy that was serious with Emily Lawrence, the most popular cheerleader in our class.

Emily cornered me at my locker the next morning and told me if I ever looked at Johnny again, she'd hang me from the

39

flagpole by my eyeballs. Revenge happened two years later when Johnny founded the school's gay and lesbian theater group.

I write the quote at the top of the page and stare at it. The word
pangs
reminds me of pangs of hunger. Definitely painful. I know love is painful, too. You get all wrapped up in somebody, then they disappoint you. Leave you. Screw with you. Ms. Austen was definitely saying that having a good friend, someone to confide in when you're down, is the best medicine. I'm glad I have Audrey to talk to, but I still can't share everything with her. Not the depths of my soul,

I look up from my paper and see Stacy stumbling in the door. Ms. Peters confronts her and hands her a yellow tardy slip, already filled out.

Stacy rolls her eyes. "That's
so
not fair."

"Sit down," Ms. Peters says sternly.

"It's all that girl's fault." Stacy points to me, then tries to hand the yellow slip back to Ms.

Peters.

"If you don't want another one, you'd better get to your seat." Ms. Peters points to Stacy's desk.

I slink down in my chair, wishing I were invisible. Stacy stomps past my desk, even though it's not on the way to her seat. "Thanks for covering for me," she snarls. "Now I'm stuck with Mr. Bradley tomorrow."

My face turns red again. I want to tell her I tried, but I can't pull the words out of my mouth fast enough. Instead, I peer down at my notebook and focus on the word
disappointment.
I over

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heard Mom using that word once on the phone. I'm not positive, but I could swear she was talking about me. "It's a real disappointment, especially after all the effort I put in. I tried to lead the way," Mom said.